Silence is Golden
by ShadieRae
Summary: These works I've posted are small sections of larger chapters. I hope to publish this one day, so I don't want to give too much away. ;
1. Chapter 1

Silence Is Golden

I had always known my life would be difficult. From the very beginning. And as usual, I was right. I know life isn't supposed to be easy. I get that. Really, I do. After years and years of love, hate, arguments, betrayals, promises, mistakes, and pain I have learned that my life has been harder than most. I'm not okay with this fact, because I think I'm a good person. Do bad things happen to good people? Apparently they do. And that really sucks.

I wasn't alone though, I had great friends to get me through the bad times. And, I am very thankful for them. So, no I'm not an ungrateful prick. I care. I was however, one of those people who thought that the world was better off without my existence. You probably already know where I'm going with this one. I was sixteen and stupid. Like already sucks when you're a teenager, mine sucked even more. Or, so I thought.

My child hood wasn't an ideal one. I grew up with distant family and drug addicted parents. I saw things that kids that age shouldn't have to. I was seven fucking years old, you know? I should've been watching Scooby Doo or something like that, not watching my parents beat the shit out each other. But that's what I saw, every day of life. At the time, I didn't let these things phase me. I was a strong seven fucking year old. Of course, all of that stuff continued until I was about fourteen. I was an innocent child; I didn't deserve to see that. I shouldn't have had to. But I did. And I'm fucking proud of that, you know. I don't have a lot to be proud of, but I am proud of that.

The night it all came to a screeching halt, I was asleep in the bed with my sister. I remember waking up and hearing my mother scream. I was protective of her, for good reason. I shook my sister awake and yelled for her to come with me downstairs. We ran as fast as we could, it felt like it took me forever to get down there. I was scared that I was too late. We reached the living room and found my mother pinned down by my father. He had a vice tight grip around her neck. She was already turning blue. I jumped on him and tried to pull him off, but he's a two-hundred pound dude. How much was honestly going to accomplish. He slung me off his back and I hit my head on that stupid table my mom "just had to have" and blacked the fuck out.

I knew when it happened, I don't know how but I did. I knew the exact moment my mother took her last breath. I don't really know how to explain it. It was like a pain shot straight through every inch of my body, hitting my heart last and worst. I wasn't even there anymore. I loved my mother more than anything in this world, I still do. She was the one thing that kept me going. Yes, she did bad things. Yes, she hurt me more than anyone ever had. But she was my mother and I loved her unconditionally. The funeral was the hardest part. Because that was it. That was the last time I would ever see her. I remember how white the room was and it had this strange glow to it. I can never explain it properly. It was perfect for her though. It was a funeral fit for an angel. I don't think I had ever cried so much in my life. My sister and I had to live with our grandparents after that. They were a quiet pair. Never really had much to do with us. I guess that was fine, but in a way I needed someone to be there for me. They weren't like that to me. I didn't really expect them to be, because they had already raised enough kids.

I'm not the type to ask a lot of someone either. After all the crazy shit went down, they asked me why I didn't talk to them. I never answered them. I couldn't, it would break their hearts.

The whole "I hate my life, I wanna fucking kill myself" thing didn't start until my junior year of high school. Everything just seemed to go horrible that year. I dated this guy that was a year younger than me. I was head over heels in love with this jerk. Not kidding. Oh, how I wish I was. He wasn't the sharpest tool in the shed but he was definitely a tool. I thought he really liked me. Pfffft, yeah right. I found out that he was cheating on me by Facebook. How stupid is that? Pretty fucking stupid if you ask me. I decided that I needed to find a way to cope with the pain. I felt a razor blade worked the best, I made some interesting works of art on my forearm. It was just that in the beginning. It worked fine for a while. Then suddenly, it wasn't enough. I wasn't enough. I was the shadow behind my older sister, I didn't add up to her. I probably never will.

It was two weeks later the first time I tried. I was tired of existing. Never living, just existing. Never being enough. I thought that drowning myself was the way to go. We had one of those big, claw foot bathtubs. It was beautiful and I was determined to make it hideous. I lit a bunch of candles, I guess I was trying to be symbolic or some shit like that. I slid down into the tub and waited for the water to still. I thought of my mother as I lay there in the water. I remembered the lullaby she used to sing me when I was scared. I started to sing it, because I was terrified. I sung that song until I chocked on the water. I stayed under there for a good four minutes until I came back up for air. I couldn't do it that way.

It had to be quicker. It had to be silent. It had to be permanent.


	2. Silence is Golden Chapter 1

Chapter 1 | Naissance

We all have a propose. We are all here for a reason. Many of you are probably shaking your head at naivety. You're probably laughing at my philosophical bullshit. Because you're too afraid to admit to yourself that I'm right. And it's okay to be scared. It's called being human. We all make mistakes. Some of you may have cheated on your wife, some of you may have lied to your best friend, and some of you might have circled the wrong answer on your history test. They were mistakes. You didn't mean to do it, it just happened. It was all an accident.

You're also probably wondering where I'm going with this. To be completely honest, I don't really know. I felt that was a good way to begin all this. Because, it's a lot.

I wish I could tell you that I lived a carefree, happy childhood. But I would be a flat out liar if I said that. My childhood was one of the darkest times of my life. No fairytales and laughter. Just nightmares and screams. I know I shouldn't really complain because I know that someone out there had it worse, way worse. Maybe still has it worse. Who really knows?

I was six years old the first time I saw it. I had spent the day with my grandmother and had just gotten home. If I could call that place home. I walked in the front door and noticed how quiet it was. Unusually quiet. I went to my mother's bedroom door and put my ear against it, and I didn't hear a peep. I opened the door and walked further into the room, I found her lying on the bed. I thought she was dead at first. She showed no sign of life. She had dark circles under her eyes, and her skin was sickly pale. I accidentally kicked something with my foot; I looked down to find a bottle of liquor. At the time I thought that this was a onetime occurrence. Little did I know, this would happen every day for the next seven years.

My first day of school was torture. My mother shoved me into this stupid poufy, pink dress; I looked like a cupcake on acid. This was first grade for God's sake not a beauty pageant. I walked into the room and all the other brats stared at me the entire way to my desk. Was I an alien or something? Last time I checked I wasn't. Some kid named Tom became my best friend that day and has been my best friend for the past twelve years. Tom and I had a weird friendship; he was light where I was dark. We were polar fucking opposites. But they do say opposites attract.

In my time in school I also dealt with the snooty bitches that never had to lift a finger in their life. I hated them the most. I know you're not supposed to hate anybody, but I break a lot of rules. We'll get into that later on.

Ashley Moore was the bane of my existence. She was the vilest person I have ever encountered. She lived in this big house on Blackberry Lane. Fucking Blackberry Lane. The snake got whatever her heart desired. She was a demon. I swear that bitch came straight from hell. She always pushed me around, always hit every nerve.

Ashley Moore died in a car accident in college, drunk driving.

My reason for telling you about Ashley is because she was foolish with her life. She thought that she was invisible. She thought her money could make her immortal. Her money was her downfall. Money was all she ever had. I pity her for that.

My story I filled with things like this. Death is just a part of life. It will happen to everyone, someday. You could be driving to work and the car in front of you loses control, you're dead. You could suddenly come down with an illness, it's a disease you've had for years but didn't know of it until now, and you're dead. Or you could be a sad teenage girl who thinks there is no point in life anymore, you hang yourself in the willow tree you played in as a child, you're dead.

I know this is all fucking depressing. I know, really. And I wish I didn't have to make it so. But this is my life, this is what happened. I can't change it believe me if I could I would.

I would have said yes when Tom asked me to be his girlfriend. I would have apologized to Ashley before she was ripped in half in that car accident. I would have gotten on my knees and begged my mother to stop what she was doing. I would have gone to church more often. I would have not cheated on that stupid phycology test senior year. I would have gone to prom. I would have tried to eat healthier.

But I didn't. I didn't do any of those things. And I fucking hate myself for that.

Life is a fucked up thing. It's the hardest thing to get through. I know I'm preaching to the choir when I say these things. You've most likely heard them all before. I'm sorry my insight goes no further than my "life fucking sucks, get the fuck over it" spiel.

I never take my own advice. I always wallow in the stupid shit. I never look for the positive. I never try and be a happier person. I don't see the point in living a lie. Because it would be a lie.

My life was kind of like watching a star die. I was bright and new as a child. But the longer I lived the dimmer my light became. Until I finally fell from the sky.

And that's what I did, I fell.


	3. Silence is Golden Chapter 2

Chapter 2 | Enfance

I guess I should start at the beginning. That would be a good idea right?

I actually don't remember a lot about my childhood. I was hit in the head a lot. You'll understand that statement soon enough.

The way to describe the birth of a child is usually euphoric or ridiculously happy. That wasn't how my birth was. My father hackled my mother her entire pregnancy. He constantly accused her of cheating on him, he claimed that I "that thing" he so sweetly put it, was no way his child. He never cared for me. I've had people pull the psychiatrist bullshit, the whole "he does love you, he just doesn't know how to express it" speech. Do they honestly think I fucking believe that? I don't. Not for a second.

My mother went through the torture of a "natural" childbirth with me. My _father_ never even came to the fucking hospital. Motherfucker. My mom called him that night to tell him his spawn had been delivered. Stupid prick was drunk. He screamed all kinds of shit at her. He said he knew I wasn't his kid and didn't plan on ever taking care of me. Son of a bitch. I hate him.

My father made good on his promise. He never took _care_ of me. Well, not in the way you think.

I was three the first time it happened. I was pushing my stupid toy kitchen around, I wasn't doing anything wrong.

My father had a lot to drink that day. Fucking vodka.

I wasn't even being that loud. I heard his heavy footsteps before I felt his rough hands close around my arm. I looked up at him and knew this was going to be bad. He face was all red, and he had this vein popping out of his neck. He looked like a damn bull ready to charge.

I hate bulls.

He started to pull me down the hallway, and because I was so small I couldn't keep up. I fell down. Then he was dragging me by what little hair I had. I finally felt carpet beneath my hands. I thought I was safe.

I wasn't.

The first kick hurt the worst. By the seventeenth kick, I was numb. I stopped counting after twenty.

Counting never helps. Never listen to whoever tells you it does. They're liars.

I remember looking at my stomach and seeing the purple and blue splotches. I never noticed, but my mother never asked me how I got those bruises. I had a feeling she didn't want to know. Or maybe she just didn't care. I wanted to think she did.

I never cried after that. Every time he hit me, I never cried in front of him. Sometimes I think he hit me harder just to see my cry. But I wouldn't let him see me as weak. I couldn't be weak and live in that place. It wasn't an option.

I know you're wondering, and no, my mother never asked. She never asked about the bruises. She never asked about my busted lip. She never asked about my black eye. She never asked about the blood dripping from my hair.

She would just stare at me with this blank look in her eyes. Almost as if she couldn't see me. I'm pretty sure she couldn't.

I'll never know why my mother never said anything. I'll never know why she wouldn't help my rinse the blood from my body when she gave me my bath. I'll never be able to ask her when she started getting bruises too.

You would have thought my teachers would have asked me if something was happening to me at home.

They didn't.

That's when the first seed of doubt was placed in my mind.

I started to doubt a lot of things after that. I started to doubt my ability in everything I did.

I still doubt things to this day. Always will.

I wish I could tell you that the abuse stopped at some point. I wish I could tell you that my parents were cured of their drug addiction. I wish I could tell you that I see my mother every once in a while. I wish I could tell that I'm better now.

But, I can't. And that kills me.

He never hit my sister. Ever.

I mean, I didn't want him to. But I always wondered why he didn't.

She would just sit in the corner and watch. She would watch him beat me to death. She never said a word either. My own fucking sister. She wouldn't help me.

I would have helped her. In a heartbeat. But I always seemed to care about them more than they cared about me.

What a wonderful family I have right? Fucking despicable.

He would walk over to her after he would leave me, and he would stroke her hair like she was a dog.

I didn't know that he raped my sister two years later. If I did, I would have fucking killed him.

I'll never understand my father. He was the most complicated person I've ever known. I don't know many people. So, maybe I can't judge that. Like I fucking care.

People avoid me at all cost mostly. For good reason. I'm toxic. I destroy everything I touch.

Tom is all I have nowadays. Even he hates me sometimes. I don't blame him, I'd fucking hate me too. Oh, wait. I already do.

A lot has changed over the years. I can take a bath in a bathtub and not hyperventilate now. I can hold a guy's hand without flinching away from them. I can look at a bottle of pills and not want to throw them down my throat.

That may not seem like an improvement to you. But it is to me.

I'm messed up; I think we've established this already.

The beating thing isn't the worst thing that's happened to me.

Surprised?

You shouldn't be.


	4. Silence is Golden Chapter 3

Chapter 3 | Les mauvaises années

We all go through bad times. Maybe for a week, maybe for a month.

Or maybe not at all.

I'd like to think that something bad happens to everybody. Call me evil, but I think it's good for the soul. It makes people a lot less stupid. Maybe.

Probably not, I'm mostly grasping at straws here. I've said this before; I'm no expert on all things fucked up. But, I think I know fucked up pretty well. Firsthand experience here.

The thing is, I thought that the abuse was the worst that had happened to me.

It wasn't.

I'm a very unobservant person. So it seems. Because I never noticed how distant and strange my parents became. My mom always had this crazy glint in her eyes. She stumbled around constantly. She never really ate anymore. She was wasting away.

My father was a different story. The man that once seemed powerful and fearless began to crumble.

His eyes. There was terror in his eyes. He finally looked worried. Even during the years of abuse I never saw him look worried.

He was finally starting to crack.

He was still crazy, of course. That would never change.

I guess I had hoped that this sudden change would make things more bearable. That things would be easier.

I was seven. Like I fucking knew what was happening.

I started to stay with my grandmother more often. I hated the thought of going back home, it fucking terrified me. My grandmother acted like nothing was happening, but she knew all along.

I don't really know how I feel about that. Maybe angry, maybe thankful. Maybe nothing.

Maybe keeping me in the dark was the best thing for me. I can't say I agree with it, but sometimes I don't know what's best for me. Who am I to say? I'm sure I'm not the only one who feels that way. In fact, I know I'm not.

The first pill bottle was lying on the living room table.

I was a curious child, fucking sue me.

I asked my mom what it was. Her reply? "Oh, it's just for my headaches, sweetie."

Because I totally buy that. Yeah, sure.

I didn't ask about it again. It would've been pointless.

Things didn't get hectic until about three months later. Of course, hectic is an understatement.

I'm sure that we all have gone on family vacations before. I'm assuming this correctly aren't I?

That's what I've always heard anyway.

My family vacations are a bit different. In a bad way. You expected that though right?

The first vacation was to a small beach in Florida. Ugh, I hate Florida.

I had thought that this was the start of something better. Oh, how wrong I was.

They were fine on the drive down. They were smiling and laughing. From the outside we looked like one big, happy family.

Too fucking bad we weren't.

It didn't start until late that night.

My sister and I were asleep. Well, trying to sleep.

You couldn't really sleep for all the screaming. Too much screaming.

I felt like my eardrums were going to burst. It was too loud.

I don't even think that they realized how loud they were being. They were too out of it. They probably wouldn't have noticed me even if I tried.

Fucking idiots.

I know you're supposed to honor thy mother and father and all that shit. But, how am I supposed to honor them with the way they act. Honor is the last thing that comes to mind when I think of them. Sorry, but no thank you.

I try and be a good kid. Really, I do. No one's perfect in this fucked up world.

We've all screw up once or twice.

The thing with my parents is that they have risked my life time and time again. I am their child. They are supposed to protect me. Not hurt me.

But that's all they ever do. Hurt me. Every fucking day of my life.

I want to hate them. I want them to feel everything they've made me feel.

I want them to suffer.

I wish the cared enough. Just enough to not put me in these situations. Just enough to ask me how I am. Just enough to look at me when they're sober.

But they don't.

If they cared, I wouldn't be in this situation. I wouldn't have to pretend that everything's okay.

Because I love them. And I have to protect them.


	5. Silence is Golden Chapter 4

Chapter 4 |Chute

Okay, let's fast forward a bit. Shall we?

I'm sixteen, fragile, young. What all sixteen year olds are. _Fragile. Young._

But, I'm more than that. I'm broken, old. I've never been a child. I never will be. I've come to accept that, though. I've learned not to ask for anything, because I never get it. And, I most likely never will. Don't be sad for me, I don't want your pity. Ever.

I'm sitting in the bedroom I share with my sister. I'm sitting at my computer desk staring at nothing. On the desk lie a broken razor and a tissue. This is what my afternoons have consisted of for the past two weeks. I've yet to make a single cut; I can't seem to make myself do it. Because I know once I do I won't stop. I don't like how this makes me feel. The fact that I can't that I can't pick up the fucking razor and just do it makes me feel weak.

I don't like feeling weak.

That day, I finally did it. And it started the viscous cycle. They always say the first cut is the deepest. And they're right. The scar of that first cut is deepest and darkest.

I remember the blood flowing down my arm. I remember my hand shaking as I tried to make the bleeding stop. I remember the images of my failures flashing behind my eyelids as I sobbed into the wooden desk. I remember the feeling of desolation and fear sweeping through my body. I remember the stares the next day at school. Like they knew how I spent my night the day before.

I remember the feeling of immense guilt.

That day after, I had never felt more hideous in my entire life. From that point on, I turned away from everyone and everything.

I remember going to the cliffs near the house one day. I daydreamed of jumping. Getting lost in the waters below. Becoming a part of it.

I was a dreamer. And when I jumped, I thought I could fly.


End file.
